


Waters Rising

by insanechayne



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (Comics), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Kind of like a crossover between the shows and the comics, M/M, One-Shot, Post season 4 mid-season finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insanechayne/pseuds/insanechayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick loses his right hand and it reminds Daryl a little too much of Merle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waters Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ricardo](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ricardo).



> So for once my friend Ricardo actually gave me a great idea for a fic, so I decided to finally create it. And I think it turned out beautifully.   
> The title of this story is also the title of my favorite song by Altar Bridge. Something about the lyrics just seemed to fit the plot in my head, so that's why it's there (though I realize that the title itself doesn't fit the story very well).   
> This is also like a crossover between the comics and the show, because in the comics there is no Daryl or Merle and the Governor cuts off Rick's hand somewhere around volume 20, I believe. It was interesting to see how the two plots collided.   
> And I think that's all I need to say right now.   
> Enjoy!

His eyes glance down to the stump for what feels like the hundredth time, and try as he might he just can’t seem to pull them away for several seconds. He doesn’t mean to look, doesn’t want to look, but some force inside of him keeps making him look. And every time he does look, whether just a glance in passing like right now or a much longer stare, he feels damn near close to tears because it reminds him too much of the brother he lost.

Daryl shudders slightly as his eyes meet the air where Rick’s right hand used to be, and he quickly looks away, clutching his crossbow just that much tighter against his chest. Thankfully Rick hasn’t noticed Daryl staring, and if he has he’s been courteous enough not to mention it.

The white bandages wrapped around Rick’s wrist and upper forearm are relatively clean, with only a few spots of blood dotting the tip of the missing limb, and no sign of infection is present thus far. And, considering the circumstances, those are both items of good news. Daryl’s been doting on him like a mother hen, anyway, so even if Rick was being careless with the cleaning of the wound Daryl would make sure what needed to be done got done.

And Rick appreciates that, he really does; he just hates feeling like he’s burdening Daryl. Rick hates feeling useless, and mutters under his breath several times a day that he wishes the Governor had lopped off his left hand instead, because then at least he’d be somewhat useful. Daryl hates that kind of talk, though, so Rick refrains from saying those things around him.

They’re both still rubbed raw from their last encounter with the late Governor, but for very different reasons.

Rick’s angry because Governor managed to get the drop on him, beat him damn near six feet under, and cut off his right hand in the midst of all of everything else going on around him. Psycho had a damn gleam in his eye while he’d done it, too, as if the only thing left in the world was Rick’s pain, which he had clearly been enjoying. Rick was lucky Michonne had shown up when she did; the slight woman had landed a swift, hard kick to the back of the Governor’s head, sending him sprawling forward onto Rick, and then too her sword back. She had pushed Governor off of Rick, sending him into the grass and dirt on his back, and had promptly shoved the katana through his chest, giving Rick an odd sort of smirk while she did so. He thinks that if he weren’t halfway to hell he’d have smiled back at her.

Daryl’s angry because the asshole killed a few too many good people, took down a perfectly good piece of safe land, and caused the group to split up into at least three separate groups: the people who made it to the bus, the people who had stuck around for the fight and then gotten the hell out of dodge once it was actually over, and their little trio, Rick, Carl, and Daryl. The rest of the group, aside from a few of the stronger members like Michonne, Tyreese, Maggie, and Glenn, could be dead or dying, unable to find shelter or food or water. And while he didn’t care for a majority of those people, he didn’t want to see anyone else die, and he certainly didn’t want any of those little kids to suffer any more than they already had since this whole apocalypse thing started.

Aside from the care Daryl’s taken to make sure Rick doesn’t die from an infection or some kind of blood loss, he’s been distant lately. He won’t talk to Rick, except to give him some kind of instruction about cleaning his stump, and he spends his nights in a completely different room of the house they’ve made temporary camp in.

Back when life was relatively peaceful at the prison Daryl would often come to Rick’s cell at night, or invite Rick to come to his, and they’d spend the night together, sometimes talking, sometimes sleeping curled into each other’s warmth, sometimes doing other things that were a lot louder and a lot more fun. Rick misses those nights, misses Daryl’s gentle caresses and whispered words, misses the comfort he had grown to seek from the other man’s presence.

Now he sleeps alone on a Queen-sized bed in a master bedroom upstairs and his dreams are filled with turmoil, memories of the prison showdown and of all they’d lost over the months leading up to it. He even dreams about Carol sometimes, and damn if he doesn’t wish he’d just kept his mouth shut and not made such a rash decision, because they sure as hell could have used her during their battle. He wakes with these thoughts in his mind and tears falling slowly from the corners of his eyes, reaching for Daryl, who is supposed to be in the bed beside him, but finds only cold emptiness there.

Daryl keeps to himself, just like he had when they were back in Atlanta, and on Hershel’s farm. He helps Carl prepare meals in near-silence, brushing over all the camaraderie they’d built up over the months with a cold shoulder, and then eats alone in some corner of the house that neither Rick nor Carl think to go looking for. He sleeps on the couch in the living room downstairs, the self-appointed night watchman, his crossbow on the floor beside him, his ears tuned to pick up every sound even in his light slumber.

Rick has stood on the upstairs landing once or twice, looking down on Daryl’s still form draped over the too-small couch like a dusty old blanket. The moonlight that filters through the slats in the drawn blinds light the man’s face in its pale glow, and even in such dimness Rick can see that Daryl is distraught, his face pinched in the tell-tale way that means he’s having nightmares. Daryl never makes a sound, but he does occasionally shift his body around, moving an arm or a leg and turning his head restlessly on his pillow, and Rick’s heart aches to see Daryl suffering so much.

Rick could take anything the Governor doled out in spades, could handle having both his arms and a leg cut off, if only Daryl would speak to him and come back to his bed. Hell, Rick would even give his life to see the redneck smile again; that smile, though small, was like magic, and seemed to cure any of Rick’s ailments.

But still Daryl drifted, their friendship seemingly forgotten, and Rick kept his mouth shut. Better to stay quiet and have Daryl there with them in some way than to talk and not have Daryl there at all.

~ ~ ~

Rick leans against the banister of the upstairs landing, his arms crossed over the top of the railing, and peers down at Daryl. Daryl is draped over that damn couch again, just like every night, looking more and more uncomfortable as the seconds pass. Daryl goes to roll over and ends up spilling onto the floor, his eyes flying open in shock, a muted “fuck” escaping his lips.

Rick smirks, biting back a chuckle; he thinks that that never would have happened if Daryl had just come to share the bed with him like he’s supposed to.

Daryl shakes his head at himself, and then suddenly his eyes snap up and lock on Rick’s. Rick thinks about turning and going back to the bedroom, fleeing the situation and letting awkward dogs lie, but Daryl’s gaze is something akin to hypnotic. Rick can’t break contact with the man on the floor below him, and Daryl knows that; maybe that’s why he’s still staring up at him, his blue eyes as tumultuous as a stormy sea even across the distance parting the two men.

And then Daryl abruptly looks away with a sigh, releasing Rick from his grasp. “C’mon down, Rick. I know y’ain’t gonna leave ‘til ya get a chance to talk to me now, so ya may as well get it over with.”

Rick hesitates for a moment, biting his lip in uncertainty. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, the chance he’d been praying for, but now he felt like just turning tail and giving it up because he knew nothing good would come of it. But he was too strong and had too much to say to just run like a scared child. With all the resolve he could muster, Rick slowly made his way down the stairs.

Rick came to a rest in front of Daryl, who was still sitting on the floor. Unconsciously, he stretched his right arm out to the redneck, as if to offer him a hand up. Realizing his mistake, though, he quickly withdrew his arm and held out his left arm, the intact hand palm up and waiting.

Daryl’s head turned away from Rick so fast the sheriff was worried the man’s neck had snapped. Daryl had to close his eyes and clench his jaw for much too long to keep the tears at bay, his breath coming out in heavy gasps. After an agonizing minute the redneck had regained his control, and ignored Rick’s hand, choosing to use the couch cushions as leverage to pull himself back up into a proper sitting position.

Rick continued to stand, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure. Was he supposed to sit next to Daryl, or just stand there while he talked? He shifted his weight from foot to foot restlessly, a trait he had picked up from Daryl in the first place.

Daryl sighed, giving a slight roll of his eyes to Rick’s nervous gestures, and simply patted the space beside him as invitation. Rick gratefully plopped down on the cushion, though he remembered to stay a good distance away from the other man.

“What’s on yer mind, Rick?” Daryl mumbled, giving no real thoughts to his words or Rick’s possible answer. He just wanted Rick to get whatever was on his chest off so he could go back to sleep; Lord knows he didn’t sleep damn near enough as he needed, and not even half as good as at the prison.

But Rick’s simple answer takes him by surprise. “You.”

Daryl raises his eyes to look at Rick, his brow quirked in confusion. “What about me?”

Rick bit his lip, thinking of how to word his next few sentences. He doesn’t mean to say as much as he does, but his mouth seems to disconnect from his brain and pours everything out all at once. “You don’t talk to me anymore. You distance yourself. You sleep down here on this couch when you know damn well the room I’m in has a bed big enough for us to share. You can’t even look at me without cringing in disgust.

“I just need to know what I did to make you hate me, Daryl. I know I didn’t fight well enough during the Governor’s attack. I know I should have done a better job of protecting the group. I know I should have been there with the rest of you, a real gun in my hands, fighting for what we had and trying to keep us together. But I can’t change the events that took place, or the way they did. I’m sorry, Daryl, but I can’t handle you acting like this toward me anymore.” Rick cuts off his monologue with a choked sob and a hitched intake of breath.

Daryl leans forward, his hands reaching out to Rick as if he’s going to pull the man into an embrace, but then he catches himself and slumps back against the couch cushions once more. This causes Rick’s eyes to well up and spill over, though he manages to keep his sobs inside his throat through sheer force of will.

“It ain’t nothin’ you did, Rick, or didn’t do.” Daryl closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his thoughts.

Daryl doesn’t want to be having this conversation, right now or ever, but he can’t find a way out of it. He will have to admit to Rick that he is weaker than either of them believed, and then Rick will be the one to distance himself from Daryl. And in Daryl’s mind it’s better to push others away than to be pushed away.

“Then what is it?” Rick asks, his words a whisper, and leans slightly closer to the redneck beside him.

Rick is longing to reach out and touch Daryl, maybe just on the shoulder or the forearm, just to give them both some form of much needed contact. He almost does it, actually, but right as he’s about to Daryl opens his eyes and looks at him with eyes so full of sorrow that Rick’s chest constricts painfully.

Daryl’s eyes drop down to Rick’s bandaged wrist, to his missing right hand, to his stump, and the tears well in his eyes. “Y’just remind me a’ Merle now. Yer both missin’ the same hand. And I guess it feels like I’m gonna lose ya, just like I lost him. Like I’m gonna wake up and yer just gonna be missin’, and then when I finally do get to see ya again you’ll go an’ get yerself killed. And I can’t bear t’lose ya like that, Rick. So I’m pushin’ ya away, preparin’ myself, and maybe the future won’t hurt as much that way.”

Daryl pushes his palms into his eyes, the tears leaking onto his skin, and inhales a ragged breath of air that barely makes it to his lungs. And then suddenly Rick’s arm his around his shoulder, pulling him into the other man’s chest, and he can feel the sobs building in his throat.

As soon as both of Rick’s arms are around him, Daryl pushes his face into Rick’s chest and lets himself cry, his tears pouring over the sheriff’s shirt like waterfalls. He’s been so strong for so long that he had forgotten what it felt like to break down, and if he’s being honest he kind of likes the cleansing quality it has on his soul; he still hates feeling so weak, though.

“Daryl, you’re never going to lose me. I love you too damn much to just up and leave you like that.” Rick whispers into Daryl’s hair, his words ghosting over the soft strands. “I wouldn’t be much use without my hand, anyway. I’m not such a killer that I need to outfit my arm with some metal racket with a knife attachment on one end of it, either.

“I know what losing Merle did to you, Daryl, believe me I do. But I’m not Merle, and I promise you that won’t happen to me. I’ll either die by your side or not at all, and since I doubt anything alive or dead could take you down it looks like it’ll be the latter.” Rick smiled at his little joke and pressed a kiss to Daryl’s skull.

“I’m sure this ol’ stump of mine is going to bring up some unpleasant memories, but you don’t have to shut me out to make them go away. You can talk to me, Daryl, about anything. Just please, give me back the one thing in the world I treasure most of all.”

Daryl sniffled and raised his head, his watery eyes looking up into Rick’s shining ones. “What’s that?”

Rick smiled, wide and open and genuine. “You.”

And then he pressed his lips to Daryl’s, his kiss gentle and giving. Daryl hesitated for a second while Rick’s lips moved against his, but then he responded, molding his mouth to the other man’s while his arms circled around Rick’s waist.

The two kissed for a long time, so long that the sun had started to replace the moon behind the blinds. With that one long, slow kiss they sealed what had been torn apart, fixed what had been broken, and healed what had been aching.

They belonged to each other once again.


End file.
